


I Can Put On A Show

by thewildwilds



Category: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types, Dangan Ronpa 3: The End of 希望ヶ峰学園 | The End of Kibougamine Gakuen | End of Hope's Peak High School, Dangan Ronpa: Trigger Happy Havoc, Super Dangan Ronpa 2
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Chair Sex, Enthusiastic Consent, F/M, Fluff, Kuzupeko - Freeform, Past Abuse, Post-Despair, Smut, Strip Tease, Worship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-22
Updated: 2017-09-22
Packaged: 2019-01-03 21:35:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12155274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thewildwilds/pseuds/thewildwilds
Summary: Even divested of all her armor, she captivates.(No one ever said she couldn’t make it count.)





	I Can Put On A Show

**Author's Note:**

> This is a spiritual sequel (of sorts) to [The Art of Being Touched](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8241430), but it can work just fine as a standalone.
> 
> Here we go again, folks.

****The idea strikes out of nowhere.

At least, it feels like out of nowhere. She’s in the middle of watering the wildflowers, something perfectly mundane, and the thought somehow creeps in between the cracks. Once it’s there, she can’t ignore it; it wiggles into the base of her brain, nestles in deep and demands attention. Later she’ll blame it on all the silly gossip she’s overheard from the other girls (it’s almost like being back home again, with the maids and staff at the estate—almost), but in the moment, she’s blindsided. She finds herself looking over her shoulder frantically, as though fearing someone might catch her with such scandalous thoughts.

Intimacy isn’t new anymore, but it’s still scary sometimes. It still rings with the echoes of an old worldview. They’re not even _married_ yet, and somehow, after everything, she’s still ashamed to admit that thoughts like these have been plaguing her mind more and more.

Perhaps she isn’t being entirely truthful. She knows where the idea arose. Her mind had strayed to that one night, when Fuyuhiko had allowed her to indulge in her desires. Her whole face burns with the memory. She’d briefly lost herself in how he had asked her to take lead, let her vocalize what she wanted, and then brought her to the brink with his hands and his mouth. Even with the memory of how good it was (and it was very, _very_ good), it’s still embarrassing to think about.

She’s an adult. She should be more mature than this. She’s driven by logic and practicality and the remnants of propriety. This idea comes from none of those places, though. It’s more carnal than that. It comes from hunger and fondness and perhaps a bit of selfishness.

But… he liked it, when she’d taken charge. And… And _she_ liked it too. It wasn’t about having _power_ over him—they’ve had enough of power imbalances to last them a lifetime—but rather… trusting each other enough to keep themselves grounded. There had been a time when they’d needed nothing but words: clear verbal cues and repeated reassurances just to stay tied to the present. But now they can do it with more. They can do it with action and thought and feel.

He had looked at her with bright-eyed reverence, like something one might reserve for someone far more ethereal than her. It was like she could move mountains with the wave of her hand, or lower the sun and raise the moon in the sky. She was heavenly in his eyes.

Fuyuhiko has been so _good_ to her. She wants to give that back to him, to help him feel what she feels. She knows she doesn’t _have_ to, but she _wants_ to.

She waits for the right time to try her idea out. She’s not sure how much she trusts herself not to worry out of her own skin before she can manage, but thankfully the opportunity presents itself soon enough.

They’re winding down in their room for the night, following a quiet dinner with their friends. Fuyuhiko sits in the little wooden chair they have near the bed, and starts to loosen his tie, offhandedly remarking on how slow progress is on the new recreation wing. (He’s been spearheading this project for weeks now. He won’t say it, but he’s happy to be back in a leadership position, creating something from the ground up, like he was always meant to do, and she’s unspeakably proud.) She reaches out to help him, just to smooth down his collar, and asks if they can reallocate duties towards the wing’s completion. She’s bent close in this position, her forehead almost bowed against his, but when she looks up again, he isn’t focused on her eyes. He’s staring at some spot just below her eyeline.

She swallows, he catches himself, and then their eyes meet.

“Um,” he says, the skin of his collar hot beneath her fingertips. “Sorry, did you… say something?”

Their eyes are doing a familiar dance, drifting down to that one spot and back up again. She shakes her head, but she should answer verbally, shouldn’t she? She tries, and it comes out as more air than voice. “No.”

Suddenly one thing leads to another: a touch turns into a kiss and a kiss turns into more touching, and they’ve both learned enough by now to let desire grow naturally instead of smothering it like an unwanted offender.

(Needless to say, the conversation is put on hold.)

It’s then that she decides to put her plan into action. It turns out to be more of a moment of happenstance than a truly conscious decision. She thinks he knows, anyway. Maybe not the exact details, but he must see the look in her eyes, because he returns it with his own: a wide, coquettish smile and a quirked brow. Her cheeks warm. That’s the caveat of being on the same page now; he’s more attuned to her feelings than ever.

But if he knows, then she doesn’t have to delay. She maneuvers herself around so that she doesn’t have to strain herself bending over, straddling his hips and sinking into his lap.

This isn’t new either. It’s comfortable, and it gives them both an easy reach without too much fuss. She bows her head and kisses him again. He melds seamlessly into the rhythm, sighs sweet against her mouth and submits to deep, open-mouthed kisses. It’s nice, being able to share in intimacy just like this. But just as he winds his arms around her waist, she gently takes hold of his wrists and pushes them back down.

She expects the alarm. His good eye flies open and he lifts his hands where she can see them.

“Sorry! Was that— Are you okay?” he asks.

She doesn’t respond. She’s happy to say they haven’t had a panic in a long while, but she doesn’t want him to panic now, so she kisses him once, gently, right over his scar, and climbs to her feet.

He watches her walk away, confused and anxious. “Wh— Where are you—”

Again, she doesn’t answer, partly because she wants to keep up this air of mystery, and partly because she doesn’t trust her own voice to respond. She crosses over to the window, where the moonlight illuminates her front and leaves the rest of her in shadow. Like this, she can show off the best parts of herself.

Her heart beats like a kick drum. Sweat slicks her palms. It’s supposed to be like a dance, like the little steps she practices in her free time, only… more intimate. She’s always been keenly aware of her body, what she needs to do to move this way or that, but nervous energy coils in her shoulders, and spiders all the way down to her fingertips.

(Maybe this isn’t such a good idea.)

No. She has to try. She wants to try. She wants to see that look in his eyes again. So, with her back to him, she breathes in deep, grasps at the courage she needs, and begins.

She starts easy, just to loosen her muscles: a slow, steady roll of her hips and shoulders. There’s no music. (Maybe there should be, but she’d been too embarrassed to ask Mioda or Sonia for anything that might help.) She’s running off intuition, and this vague picture in her head of something sensual and enticing.

She keeps the rhythm going as she flutters slightly trembling fingers along the curve of her hips, up to the dip of her waist, and then back down again. It helps that she can’t see him, and he can see all of her. Normally, that sort of thing would stress her out, but right now it’s what she needs. She traces the hem of her shirt. It’s just a simple V-neck; they can’t count much for luxury on the island, but it’ll do its job well enough tonight. She catches her fingertips underneath the edge, and bunches the fabric beneath her breasts, so he can see the expanse of bare skin between her shirt and her waistband.

She lets him settle on that sight for a moment, lets the weight of what she’s doing sink in, then crosses her arms to grip the bottom of her shirt. She slides her feet apart, still swaying to an invisible beat. While gripping her shirt, she stretches up—pushes up on her toes and elongates her spine—and pulls her shirt over her head. She does it in one slow, smooth motion, so he can see the shifting lines in her back, and the way her hair tumbles out over her shoulders.

The shirt is thrown by the wayside. Her hands glide down to her skirt next. She swivels her hips to one side, and then the other, hooked thumbs running all along the inside of her waistband. She tugs at the elastic, teases it down an inch—just a peek at the top of her panties—and then pulls it back up again. (She thinks she hears him hiss behind her, but she can’t be sure.)

Instead she hikes the bottom of her skirt higher on her thighs. She makes sure to bend at the waist when she rolls off her nylons, one leg cocked and the other straight. It leaves her hips at an angle, pronounces her curves beneath the flow of her skirt. The silk glides down easy. It moves like the gentle caress of cold water on her skin, leaving goosebumps in its wake. When she reaches her calf, she kicks her leg back and tugs the stocking all the way off, toes pointed like a dancer.

She bends again, to start on the second stocking, and finally peeks over her shoulder to see if he’s watching.

He’s watching. He can’t stop watching. The pupil of his good eye is blown so wide it makes his eye look black. His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows. A bead of sweat rolls down the bridge of his nose, and trickles along the edge of his lip. His eye follows every little movement she makes, and— _oh._ Something in her chest swells, then shoots low, pooling in that spot just below her belly.

She continues where she left off; she rolls off the second stocking the same way she did with the first, with slow, careful ease, and then it’s back to the skirt. No more teasing this time. She tugs at it, pulls it down over her hips until it pools around her ankles. She steps out of the puddle of fabric, one foot after the other, and then she’s left in just her undergarments.

She turns, her heart in her throat. He’s still watching. She should feel vulnerable, and in a way, she does, but it’s layered beneath a more powerful certainty, bare as she is.

She approaches him, each step slow and deliberate. He leans back in the chair, but he doesn’t take his eye off her for a second.

It’s not like the look from before. Not quite. It’s something new: more tender than when they’d undressed themselves for each other for the first time, and more intense than when he had finally managed to bring her to pleasure without needing to stop. His mouth hangs open, just a bit, and he holds so still it looks like he isn’t breathing.

She sinks back into his lap, draping her arms over his shoulders.

“Hello,” she says.

“Hi,” he replies, ragged and parched.

It’s a different story, actually touching him. She’s the one initiating contact this time, and it’s not something they’ve discussed beforehand. There’s no room for her to fall back and improvise if something goes wrong. She freezes, suddenly unsure of how to proceed.

She can’t waver now. It isn’t _sexy._ (She’s never had to _be_ sexy for him before. Many other things, yes, long ago, but never that. It has always been an afterthought, an outcome and not a cause.) So she expels nervous air, gently places her hands on his shoulders, and leverages herself up, so she can loom over him better.

Her throat feels dry. She wets her lips with the tip of her tongue. He zeroes in on that little movement and surges forward and—

She must have whited out for a second, because she doesn’t remember kissing him so suddenly or pulling him this close. It’s like a dam breaks. She’s dizzy from the sensation, his hands on her body and his tongue dancing with hers. Whatever he’s giving her, it strikes up a wildfire in her heart, fans it to all-consuming. She finds that carnal feeling once again, and pushes her hips forward and down, grinding against the abrasive fabric of his trousers. The sound he makes is like he’s coming undone, like something inside of him has to give before he can breathe again. She does it again, just for that, soft and supple all around him.

“Holy shit,” he gasps.

His fingers dig into the flesh of her thighs. She relishes in the way he shifts beneath her, but there’s still work to be done. She gently takes him by the wrists again and pushes his hands down, like she did at the start, and he doesn’t fight it. He looks enthralled, even, ready for whatever else she has in store.

It’s like exquisite surrender.

He’s wearing too many clothes, she decides. She leans a bit away so she can start undoing the row of buttons down his front. He lets her. He’s flushed all the way down to his chest, and she gets to see it inch by inch, like she’d done for him only moments ago. The fabric rustles pleasantly as she works it off his shoulders and tosses it aside. She plants a warm kiss to his newly exposed collarbone, breathes hot against his skin, and he shivers beneath her.

She reaches lower. The sound her fingernails make as they clatter against his belt buckle is like a sudden reminder of how far she’s gotten. She licks her lips and undoes the belt, pulling it through the loops fluidly. She can’t help but blush as she tugs down his zipper, right over where she can feel he’s straining. He releases a puff of air that cascades down her chest like a wave, and warms her all the way to her toes. She crooks her fingers into his waistband, lets her eyelids flutter shut as she works it down, but—

Her eyes shoot open. She can’t pull it down any further. With all her weight on his thighs, she’s blocking her path with her own body. She exhales between her teeth, but the next inhale doesn’t come. She tries shifting her weight to one side, clumsily, to grant herself more room, but it makes the chair wobble on uneven legs. His hands come down to join hers when he sees she hasn’t made any progress, tugs impatiently at his waistband, and finds the same problem. The fabric just bunches awkwardly low on his hips.

She’s messed up. The rhythm is all wrong now. It buzzes high, at the top of her skull, like a parasite, blares with the repetition of wrong, wrong, _wrong._

She sees the line that appears between his brows, and her heart plummets. She expects him to get frustrated, angry, because she hadn’t the foresight to consider this one outcome, despite all her meticulous planning. She should have never done anything at all. She should’ve kept her mouth shut. (She’s shameful, she’s a disgrace, _she’s—_ _)_

—But instead of getting angry, he laughs, breathy against her cheek.

“Goddamn thing,” he says, no heat behind his words.

That one, sharp sound is enough to buffet away any worry she had. The siren in her head fades. She manages a laugh too, expelling the rest of her worries.

He carefully lifts her up to standing, giving himself enough space to shimmy out of his pants and underwear, and then she’s back in his lap like nothing was ever amiss. (He’s always doing that, filling in the extra gaps when she can’t fill them in herself.) She wants to thank him, but it feels unnecessary in the moment. (It’s not like before though, when they’d kept everything unspoken and unsatisfied between themselves.) She’ll show him instead.

He follows the line of her neck with the brush of his lips. He’s hard against her naked thigh, and he doesn’t bother hiding it. (It always puts a lump in her throat, the way he feels everything so _intensely.)_

She wouldn’t have him feeling more exposed than her, though. She hooks her thumbs beneath the straps of her bra, and tugs until they’re drooping off her shoulders.

“Could you help me with this?” she asks.

He nods like his neck has gone weak. His fingers quest along her spine for the clasp of her bra. He’s practiced now, so it comes undone in a few seconds, but in early days he’d been clumsy with it, yanking and tugging until he flushed with embarrassment. The memory makes her smile now, the corners of her mouth curving with impish energy. He doesn’t seem to mind.

She rolls her shoulders forward to assist him in easing her breasts out of the cups. He cradles her breasts in both hands and looks up at her, eye soulful. She nods. It’s okay.

He wraps his lips around one peaked bud. She moans, her head lolling back as he drags his tongue along the sensitive flesh, starting from the tip and spiraling out. Her vision goes hazy around the edges, eyelashes fluttering.

She wants him. She aches down to her bones with want. It’s never felt this _strong_ before. She’s never felt this hot inside, or this slick outside, it’s almost overwhelming. It’s like drawing water from a well, and never coming up full enough.

She stands again, just enough to push her underwear down to the floor, and then they’re left bare for one another, comfortable within their own skins. She fits back against him like a puzzle piece. He hisses when she slides her hips forward, pushes herself flush against where he’s straining, and where she’s warm and slick. It helps to ease the ache, a bit, but it’s still not enough. She tells him so.

He understands.

She helps him with the condom, and then aligns her hips over his. He circles his arms around her waist.

“Ready?” he asks.

She nods. “Yes.”

With a gentle hand, she guides him where she needs him, and sinks home.

He groans. He always groans when he’s within her, doesn’t matter how little or how often they join. It makes her feel like something precious, or— more than that. Radiant. Celestial. One-of-a-kind.

Her breath lodges in her throat. “Don’t move,” she gasps. He goes still, or as best as he can, the rise and fall of his chest so prominent pressed up against her own. He gives her time to adjust, like he always does, to let the low ball of pressure coiling in the pit of her belly settle to something manageable.

After a moment of getting her bearings, she rolls her hips experimentally, just to test the fullness, and the sensation elicits pleasure instead of discomfort. He’s trembling with the effort to keep still, to not jostle her before she’s ready. When she nods _(it’s okay)_ , his hands immediately tangle in her hair. He buries his face against her neck and takes a deep, shuddering breath.

“God,” he chokes.

She sets the pace, slow and gentle. It’s a pleasant rhythm, a steady rock of her hips that touches every part of her from within. It quickens his breathing, and steals hers away. His hands eventually stray to her hips, gripping tight, but he doesn’t try to hurry her along. He’s just anchoring himself so he doesn’t drift too far. She can be that for him.

He’s peppering wet kisses wherever he can reach—her face, her neck, her breasts. She finds extra purchase with her toes against the floor so she can leverage herself higher and _that_ _—_ that touches a spot deep inside her that makes her tremble from end to end. She loses that slow, gentle churn, goes faster and deeper until her vision sparks and her lungs burn and still she keeps going. She feels tense all over, wound tight like a wire. She moans his name on an exhale, cries out close to choking, and angles her hips so she can feel that burn again.

“ _Fuck, Peko—”_ he hisses in her ear.

It sounds like he’s close already. He moves like he’s coming apart, below her and within her. She reaches between them and strokes the little bundle of nerves between her thighs, to help speed herself along.

He’s breathing hard, between heated kisses and strained curses. He’s trying to hold on for her; she can feel it in the creak of the chair below them, but his eyes are screwed shut like he’s not sure what else to do.

“Look at me,” she pants.

He does. His good eye springs open and focuses on her and stays there. She captivates with just a heavy look. She’s never felt more beautiful than she does with him watching her blossoming into pleasure above him.

He chokes out something she half-understands against her skin; her name, or words, or maybe just pure sound. He shudders beneath her, stiffens, and surges high, ragged groans pulled from his throat. She holds on tight while he rides it out. There’s more, she knows there is. She clings to him with everything she has, just to reach that peak. The feeling slams up her spine, and she arches and tenses until it feels like she might snap in two. It rises like a mountain, curves like a wave, and the moment it crests, it feels like she can breathe water, only better, because it’s him, and he’s here. She’s safe, she’s free, she’s _home._

She collapses against him, draped over like a blanket. It feels like hours before they finally catch their breaths. He’s flushed and sweaty from his forehead to his chest. Strands of hair stick to her cheeks.

“Goddamn,” he breathes against her neck.

She exhales shakily, and turns her head down to his, tip of her nose pressed against his damp temple. “Did you… like it?”

“You kidding me?” he laughs breathlessly, but then he looks up at her, and his face softens. “I liked it,” he says. His cheeks darken, and his smile turns shy. “Probably too much, if you ask me.”

“Oh…” Her cheeks darken too. She chews at her bottom lip, suddenly very aware of what she’s done, but then he pinches her thigh, playfully, just enough to make her squeak. It’s just him. It’s just them. They share a quiet laugh, and a kiss, and then she stands so they can clean each other up.

It had been worth it, she decides, as she bends to retrieve her shirt, and peeks up at his wide, content smile—not just for the look on his face, but for every part of it. It quashes the scrap of doubt still lingering in the back of her head. She still has her reservations; she doesn’t think that will ever stop, but something this beautiful—something that brings them this close together—can’t possibly be bad.

Already, she feels the urge to find new, gratifying ways to feel that burn again, so that they may to be one again—mind, body, and soul—but for now she can be sated with the performance she’s done, and how full her heart feels.

Another time. Another night.


End file.
